


Role of a Lifetime

by Fyre



Series: A Little Kindness [9]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Slow Show - mia_ugly
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:01:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22883692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: “Oh! Right! I forgot! The scripts for season three arrived at my office before I left.”Avery’s expression brightened. “Oh, that’s very prompt! I was hoping they would arrive soon.”Gabriel nodded. “I’m gonna have a look over the outlines, check for anything that we might need to negotiate about, but all being well, I’ll get them to you tonight.”
Series: A Little Kindness [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628107
Comments: 54
Kudos: 138
Collections: Slow Show Metaverse





	Role of a Lifetime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mia_ugly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly/gifts).



> Welp, this was a knife to the kidney and no mistake.

“There he is!”

Avery plastered on a smile, getting up from the table to greet his manager. “Afternoon, Gabriel.”

Gabriel smiled that wide, white smile and reached out to clasp his hand. “Good to see you. You’re looking…” He hesitated, his violet eyes sliding over Avery the way a butcher might consider a haunch of meat. He hissed through his teeth. “C’mon, Avery. We’ve talked about this, buddy.”

Perhaps it was all the years of practise, but the blush stayed well below his collar. “Excuse me?”

Gabriel socked him gently in the belly. “You’re gonna give wardrobe more work if you keep this up. You want them to have to remake all your costumes?” He dug out his mobile. “I know a girl, _great_ personal trainer. She’ll get you back in shape in no time.”

“That’s… unnecessary,” Avery murmured, self-consciously sitting back down at the table, tucking himself closer to it to hide as much of his midriff as possible. Maybe he _had_ spent a little more time on himself this shoot but that was hardly– it wasn’t as if he had ballooned.

Gabriel waved him into silence, sprawling elegantly into the opposite chair. “Camille! Sweetie! Hey, how’s it going? Oh, that’s _great_. Listen, I have a client in town for a few weeks. Wants to do a few classes, get toned up. Shooting in the fall.” He winced dramatically. “Yeah, you know how they are for continuity. Gotta be consistent, right?”

Avery folded his hands on the table, staring down at them. Gabriel was right, of course. Continuity and all that. Yes. He tried not to think of the causes, the extra nights of wine and food and ridiculous, charming company.

“Fantastic, sweetie!” Gabriel beamed. “I’ll send you his details and you can let him know all the access codes, okay?” He ended the call and grinned. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Got a session for you tomorrow morning.”

Avery’s mouth moved into a smile. “Marvellous. Thank you. That’s very… considerate of you.”

“Can’t have you getting soft,” Gabriel laughed, waving over a waitress and driving the point home with a couple of mineral waters and the lowest calorie salad on the menu.

They were halfway through the rather miserable little meal when Gabriel – who had been waxing lyrical about some ‘amazing girl’ he’d met at an award show – slapped his hand on the table.

“Oh! Right! I forgot! The scripts for season three arrived at my office before I left.”

Avery’s expression brightened. “Oh, that’s very prompt! I was hoping they would arrive soon.”

Gabriel nodded. “I’m gonna have a look over the outlines, check for anything that we might need to negotiate about, but all being well, I’ll get them to you tonight.”

Well, that was something to look forward to that _wasn’t_ an impromptu gym class. It was always exciting to see what the writers had in mind. As tempting as it was, Avery had tried his utmost not to nag at Michael for clues. She never gave anything away.

“I’ll look forward to it,” he said.

__________________________________________

The afternoon recording session had gone well. A few lines had been a little trickier than Avery’d expected – scientific terminology was always his Achilles’ heel – but all things considered, Avery thought his eloquent Victorian scientist sounded rather good. They liked him to raise the ‘Queen level’ and it was always fun to play someone so ridiculously posh.

He’d just opened a nice bottle of Port when his phone rang. A glance at his screen made his heart stutter. Was the bloody man telepathic now? Calling as soon as Avery had decided to indulge himself?

“Gabriel!” he said at once. “Hello!”

“I’ve read through the scripts,” Gabriel said, cutting to the chase a lot more abruptly than usual.

“Oh?” It was unusual for him to be quite so snippy.

“Looks like we’ve found out why they wanted to cast an infamous queer in the role.”

Avery’s stomach dropped like a rock. “You needn’t be so dismissive of Anthony. His sexuality has no relevance to his performance.”

Gabriel snorted. “Yeah, says the man who’s gonna be seen making out with him on-screen.”

The world devolved into white noise.

Avery’s heart had stopped. It had definitely stopped. He…

“Wh-what?”

“William’s storyline this year,” Gabriel snapped. “I swear to God, if they keep pandering to the audiences with this god-damned queer-baiting without warning us that they plan to do it, we’re going to have to reword your contract.”

White noise and dissolving underfoot.

“William is… it’s… what?”

Gabriel sighed impatiently. “They want to give him a crisis of sexuality. Like the crisis of faith last season wasn’t enough. At least we’re gonna be guaranteed some meaty scenes for you, if they’re putting all the focus on William, even if they’re turning him into some kind of love-sick fairy.”

“Oh. Yes.” Was he making words? Did they make sense? Were they the right ones? “Is… how are the scripts? Is it– how have they handled it?”

“Eh.” Gabriel had a way of making everything sound second-rate. “It… I guess it’s okay. I mean, for what it is. But it does feel kind of like TV clickbait. You want me to bring it up with Michael?”

Yes, he wanted to scream, trying not to imagine how explicit the show might get. About the fact that he would be… that Crowley and him… that…

“P-perhaps I should read it first,” he said. “See how… if I think it would be doable.”

“Ugh. Sure. I’ll get them couriered over in half an hour.”

“Thank you.” He ended the call and put the phone down, his hands shaking like a leaf.

Oh dear Lord, what was he thinking? Did he really think he could spend a whole bloody season _pretending_ to fall in love with Crowley when the damned feeling was already crawling up his throat and trying to tear him open?

“Shit. shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”

He ought to tell Anthony.

No. He _wanted_ to tell Anthony, but he ought to tell Tracy. She would know what to do, to say, when his hands were shaking and his breathing was coming too fast and he was remembering a dark theatre and a hand on his and any number of toilets and bleak alleys and rough harsh hands and mouths and that snarling wanting fire that lived in his belly and would burn him to cinders.

It took him four attempts to make a message with words.

[Call me when you get this.]

The port followed. Lots of it. Too much of it. Stupid. Gym tomorrow but it drowned out the panic, the panting shaking breathlessness, the image of headlines, his name ripped to shreds and spattered across them like dog shit in the street. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Door buzzed long before Tracy called. Big fuck-off bundle of paper from a courier. Bloody big thick fuck-off book. Script. Thingie. With the words. With him kiss… with… him… with Anthony. In front of _everyone_. And no one – _no one_ – was meant to see. Not that. Not his secret. Not his want. Not when he _knew_ it would bubble out and everyone would know and see and–

“Oh _fuck_.” He threw the bloody thing on the floor as soon as the door was closed and smushed his hands over his face. “FUCK!”

More port happened.

 _Bad_ idea.

Phone finally went when everything was dark outside.

“’Lo?”

“Az?” Tracy. All sleepy-sounding. “Wassa matter, pet?”

“Fucking script,” he mumbled. He was sitting on the floor by the couch. Had been for long time. Legs all wobbly. “S’not good, Trace. S’all… there. S’there and I’ve got to… to pretend… to pretend again, like I’m not– like I don’t–” Stupid wet tears and snot and pain all tight around his ribs.

“Put me in video, love,” she said gently. “Now. You remember how?”

Took him a couple of tries and there she was, all pale and sleepy and hair all over. Blurry too. Maybe that was wet eyes?

“Eyes on me, all right? Tell me what’s happening.”

In fits and starts he did. Stupid scripts. Stupid secret turned into a stupid story in a stupid bloody show. Pretending to secretly want and fancy and they bastards _knew_. Had to know. Had to know about his stupid bloody crush on Anthony bloody Crowley.

Tracy’s face went all crumply, gentle-like. “Oh, love. I don’t think they know. I think they’re just following the screaming fangirls. You know what these kind of shows are like.”

Avery nodded, rubbing at his awful wet sticky face. “Don’t want them to know.”

“I know, love.” She sighed. “Look, this is just what sells now. They’re not doing it to make you– it’s just bad luck, that’s all.”

“Haven’t spoken to Crowley,” he said from a mouth all ragged and dry. “Poor bugger. Bet he didn’t sign up for playing a sex object.”

“He’s done it before,” she said firmly. “All those films where they stuck him in tight jeans or put his arse on camera? Or made him shag some dollybird with tits up to her chin? This’ll be easy compared to that. He’ll be fine.”

 _But will he_ , Avery though miserably, _having to pretend to fancy a stupid wet lump like me?_

“Az, can you do something for me?”

“Mm?”

“Go to the kitchen and get yourself a glass of water, all right? You’re meant to be working tomorrow and you’ll be in no fit state if you don’t get yourself hydrated.”

He laughed damply. “S’true,” he agreed, staggering unsteadily to his feet. “Trace?”

“Yes, love?”

“D’you think I can do it?” He sniffed hard. “The… the part. Playing it. Like that. Pretending to be… that. Without anyone knowing?”

She leaned in closer to the camera. “Avery Fell, you’re the best bloody actor I’ve ever seen. If they think you can do it, it’s because they know you can. You have a read, see what they have in mind, and I bet you can make something bloody brilliant out of it.”

“You’re biased,” he grumbled as he plodded to the kitchen.

She grinned at him. “Course I am. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” She peered around. “You got your water yet?”

He held up a glass and downed as much as he could in one go. It sloshed in his belly, but his mouth wasn’t all soggy sandpaper now.

“That’ll help.” She gave him a fond smile. “You get some rest, all right? Once you’ve had some kip, have a look. It might surprise you. Might be all right.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, knuckling at one eye. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem, poppet. Now, bed, all right?”

He nodded and hung up and didn’t even look at the stupid great box as he shuffled to his bedroom, water in hand.

____________________________________

He should’ve said something.

He spoke to Crowley. He told him about the scripts and when he opened his mouth to tell him about the main plot for him – for them – it was like someone had poured cement down his throat. He hadn’t even looked at the bloody things yet, couldn’t face it, not when he’d almost killed him at Gabriel’s bloody exercise class.

So he didn’t say anything and instead, he dug in, once all the work was out the way and he wasn’t aching in places he didn’t even know he had. He sat down, teapot, cup, packet of biscuits, and set to work on the script and they…

They weren’t terrible. They were… quite sensitively done, he supposed. The flashbacks were a little on the nose, but William’s emotional journey had the potential to be very interesting to play. And curiosity got the better of him. Page after page, episode after episode.

And…

Oh _Christ._

Gabriel wasn’t exaggerating. There was a kiss. William, at the end of his tether, having a dream, a very… particular kind of dream. And Avery could see it so clearly in his mind’s eye. The forest. The moonlight. Crowley as a much more polished and pristine Erasmus emerging like a shadow from the forest to seduce him.

“Fuck,” he said, very, very softly, and put the script down.

It took him the best part of the night and morning to get all the way through, limiting himself to one glass of whisky – and only after he’d read and re-read the kiss scene – and finally, he gave in to the desperate need to know exactly how Crowley was taking this wonderful/dreadful arc.

Apparently, obliviously.

He hadn’t seen them, heard anything about them, read anything and…

And there were gentler ways to test the waters, but Avery’s mouth moved before his brain could cooperate. “I’m falling in love with you.”

He froze, the words heavy on his tongue. _Fuck_ , he mouthed, shaking hand leaping to his lips.

“I– I–” He sounded shocked. Good shocked? Bad? Awful? Horrified? “Sorry, you– _Avery_. Avery–what?”

Avery’s stomach flipped on itself. Laugh it off, casual. Best way. Not blurting out your bloody feelings like a bloody idiot. Oh, here’s my heart on a platter, do you want it? “In season three,” he said all in a rush. “Can you believe it?”

There was a silence on the other end and oh, that didn’t sound good at all.

Hastily, he filled the silence. “I think it’s done– fairly well. On my first read.” He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. “I’m sure a lot will change– it always does, doesn’t it?”

Still silence. Stilted, awkward, echoing silence.

“I wanted to talk to you about it though–” He continued to natter uselessly into the void, as if that could make things better. “Make sure you thought–”

Eventually, Crowley crept his way back into the conversation. Didn’t sound pleased about it. Not at all. Not… disappointed, but… not happy. And it was like being gently skewered all over again, pinned down, put on display in all his hidden messy glory, and Crowley didn’t even… wasn’t even…

When he finally finished the call, he carefully laid down his telephone and then poured himself another – fuller – glass of whisky. 


End file.
